Folié à Deux
by hyperempathie
Summary: In the midst of battling the horrible beast of adolescence, Pete finds himself giving into romantic persuasions towards one of his friends but the familiar ache of feeling inadequate plagues his mind. Wherein the misery quartet engages in their regular agenda of being goth as shit.
1. Chapter 1

_Cheer me up, cheer me, up I'm a miserable fuck_  
><em> Cheer me up, cheer me, up I'm a tireless bore<em>  
><em> Cheer me up, cheer me, I'm invisibly stuck all in myself<em>  
><em> Yes I'm a vanity whore<em>

_"Kid Gloves" - Voxtrot_

* * *

><p>"This is bullshit," Michael Lynch's nasally voice made itself evident against the silence of the cold, winter air. Henrietta had suggested they all go to the Village Inn instead of participating in organized education. Except the Village Inn was closed and Henrietta Biggle's plan had crumbled beneath the veil of reality. Michael stomped on the butt of his cigarette before pulling another from the nearly empty pack, "what the fuck do we do now?"<p>

The neon sign in front of the building was missing some of the letters, so it read _'Viage n',_ a pseudonym freshman hipsters adopted and used to refer to the café. For the present misery quartet, it would always be the Village Inn.

"We aren't going back to school, that's for fucking sure," Pete emphasized, picking at his fingers, a nervous habit he had developed in grade school, "Let's go to Henrietta's house."

"Dude," the aforementioned girl chimed in, "why is it always my house?!"

"Because all our records, books, movies and other forms of media under the category of _goth-as-shit_ are in your room."

"Fair enough," and they shuffled back into Michael Lynch's car, the steady vroom of the motor accentuating the bass from the radio. Siouxsie Sioux's vocals further set the mood as they sat in their regular configuration: Michael taking the front seat with Firkle in the passenger's seat, leaving Henrietta and Pete to encompass the roomy back.

This is how their Mondays usually went, they'd skip school and end up in Henrietta's room with no parental supervision for about 7h.

Upon arrival, Firkle nearly leapt out of the vehicle and waited impatiently at the front door while the chubby girl fiddled with her keys: "Calm down, dude."

Her room smelled vaguely of incense and strongly of cigarette smoke and hairspray. Peter Grey was the first to sit down, taking his place on the floor with his back against her bed. She sat across from him and on either of their sides sat Firkle and Michael.

"Can we talk about how Bebe fucking Stevens asked me to the prom?" and their regular banter ensued, in which Michael denounced even the idea of prom and Henrietta's eyes scanned Pete who sighed inaudibly.

"Maybe prom isn't so shit, Michael," Pete offered, "I mean, yeah, Stevens is a poser douche-bag but," he paused, Michael arched a brow, "it would be cool to go with someone you like. Like, not attend just... y'know, the sentiment of asking someone to a shitty poser high school dance. The ideal of every indie teenage angst love story."

Henrietta stood up, delivered a "I'll be right back," and left the room, leaving the boys on their own. Firkle leaned against the wall and played with his dark grey lighter while Michael shifted closer to his other friend.

He was so close, Pete could swear he could feel his breath ghost across his lips when he spoke, "you really think that?" and his throat constricted so he didn't answer. Michael took it as a prompt to elaborate, "that prom thing, I mean."

"Uh," he breathed, "yeah..."

"Do you wanna go, then?" he began, "with me. We can just sit on the parking lot and smoke."

Just as Pete was about to answer, the door clicked open and Henrietta walked back inside, drying her hands on the sides of her dress and nudging the door shut.

"I'll tell you later," Peter whispered to his friend before averting his attention to Henrietta Biggle, who sat back down on the floor and lit a cigarette, the holder making it tough for her to align the flame. She inhaled deeply and then sighed.

"You guys, we cannot stay in all day," she droned, "the entire point of going to The fucking Village Inn was to _avoid_ being hermits at least a bit. But it seems like all our options include giving into the dogma of teenage socialization."

"What do you suggest?" Firkle piped in, having been quiet until that point. He ruffled his hair and waited for a response.

There was none. Michael sighed wearily before getting up, "I say we all go home and then meet up later this evening at the graveyard," and hastily adding, "with alcohol."

Pete's voice was caught in his throat as he coughed, "Dude, I can't walk home."

"I'll drop you off," he offered in a way that made Pete's chest tighten so all he could do was nod.

Henrietta showed them all out and they concluded they would contemplate the details via text. "Tell me when you assholes wanna meet up," as Firkle eloquently put it.

The walk to Michael's car felt like an eternity for Pete, the sudden change in temperature seemed to affect him more than usual and his hands felt like icicles before he climbed into the passenger's seat and fumbled around with the seatbelt with shaky hands. The door closed shut and he turned to look at Michael.

He looked menacing like that, one hand on the wheel and the other releasing the parking brake. Pete tried to avert his eyes when he caught himself staring. Michael's features were intense, focused, and the shadows of his face made him look intimidating. Pete quickly turned to gaze out the window, huffing under his breath.

"So," Michael began, "prom. Or should I take your silence as a subtle, yet stern rejection?"

Pete almost laughed, but it came out as more of a scoff, "Don't say that," he said, before adding, "I'd love to."

Silence.

Doubt seemed to overtake Pete's mind as he wondered if he had said the wrong thing. Had he sounded too eager? Michael shifted gears and Pete realized he didn't recognize the area they were in.

"Where are we going?"

"Wasting my dad's gas," was the only answer Michael gave, "we'll go to your place in a bit."

Peter Grey accepted this answer as he knew the disdain Michael bore towards his father. Pete wasn't exactly a fan either, so he could hardly argue. The air conditioning of the car produced a steady whir, heating up the vehicle sufficiently. The Cure served as a white noise for when the conversation went silent.

They drove around the town before returning to familiar grounds, the car slowing down to a halt outside of Pete's house. His chest felt tight again as he got out of the vehicle and waded through the snow to the front door. Michael waved a goodbye through the window and Pete's expression changed into the closest thing to a smile he was capable of.


	2. Chapter 2

_He sees the bright and hollow sky _  
><em>He sees the city asleep at night <em>  
><em>He sees the stars are out tonight <em>  
><em>And all of it is yours and mine<em>

_"The Passenger" - Siouxsie and the Banshees_

* * *

><p>At around 6PM, his phone's message tone sounded, engulfing the silence emphasized by the gentle, barely audible tick of a clock that stood on a shelf in his room. A dream catcher hung limply above his bed and swayed as he got up to grab his mobile phone.<p>

It was from Henrietta.

_"Michael says to meet up at 10PM. Bring alcohol."_

He hastily typed his reply:

_ "Ok. At the entrance or...?"_

Before texting Michael.

_"What kind of alcohol?"_

_"Literally anything but wine."_

_"Ok. See you there."_

Moments after, Henrietta affirmed their rendezvous point. Pete fell back on his bed and considered whether or not he should put some effort into his appearance. On one hand, no one would care. But on the other, _oh_, the idea of potentially impressing Michael Lynch. He sighed at his childish endeavors, but made no effort to deny them.

Peter Grey forced himself out of bed and stumbled towards the large mirror in his room, berating himself on his poor outfit coordination before changing four or five times. He doubted his friends had these sort of problems.

His dream catcher continued to sway as he shuffled around his room before settling down in front of the mirror again, attempting to make his eyeliner at least mildly acceptable. The great thing about being part of a subculture is deciding that smudgy makeup is a style.

He groaned in exasperation, eyeing the clock. The cemetery seemed so far away now that he realized how little time he had to get there. Quickly, he reached for his phone and texted Michael.

_"Pick me up in 10 minutes,"_ and left it at that. He had a habit of making decisions at the last minute, his friends, in turn, developed the skill of being able to work in small frames of time.

'Anything but wine,' he thought, wading through the kitchen cabinets and fridge. It seemed like luck was never on his side when he was looking for something. Snagging a bottle of vodka, he grabbed his coat and bolted out the door as not to be noticed. Now the question was how long it would take Michael to get there.

Snow fell around him, piling on his hair and shoulders as he berated himself for not grabbing a hat, he sat on the stairs in front of his porch, waiting. What was in reality barely 15 minutes felt like an eternity and he perked up at the sight of Michael Lynch's headlights illuminating his street. As he grabbed the bottle he had set down, he tried to look as casual as possible walking to the car.

"Need a ride?" Michael mocked through the half-open window. Pete rolled his eyes and got in. He wanted to retaliate, but decided against it.

This time, they took a shortcut, the vroom of the motor evident against the silence - there was no music.

"Done spending your father's gas, huh?"

"Yeah. He's gonna kick my ass tomorrow," Pete's features tensed at this. Most people would interpret it as a joke, but he knew better.

"Hey, if you need a place to stay," Pete trailed off. He felt small and insignificant at that moment, like he couldn't offer much, but _god_, the thought of anyone laying a hand on Michael made him see red. He exhaled deeply, "I mean, I don't wanna, y'know," the words seemed foreign coming from his mouth, "impose or anything."

"Thanks," was all Michael said before adding, "you're not imposing," his tone was gentle in a way that sent pinpricks down Peter's spine as he leaned back into the soft cushioning of the seat. The vehicle slowed to a halt outside the graveyard gates, Pete fumbled incompetently with the seatbelt before opening the door and stepping outside. Both doors slammed shut in unison and they paced towards the fence.

The bottle of vodka felt hot in his hands, his sweaty palms rubbing against the its neck with a gentle squeak. The stiff gates protested to Michael pushing them open, creaking loudly in response, residue from the rust remained on his fingers so he wiped his hands on his black jeans. There was an atmosphere of conspiracy, and Pete felt the familiar rush he got whenever they did anything against the rules.

Inside, they spotted Firkle sat on a small gravestone, flicking his lighter on and off. He looked up and his eyes met Michael Lynch's and then Peter's, he scoped them up and down before getting up and walking towards them, "Henrietta's running late," he pointed out.

Michael scoffed airily, "of course she is."

A faint chirp of a whippoorwill was evident in the distance and the snow squeaked gently under their feet. Pete plucked the lighter from Firkle's hands, elaborating with a: "I forgot mine," and aligned the flame with his cigarette before sharply inhaling. He leaned his back against a sturdy headstone and looked up at the night sky. There were never any stars anymore, probably from all the smog and pollution, but he wondered if he really missed them.

Michael drew his attention by walking up to him and rubbing off a bit of smudged eyeliner. He held his breath as Michael whispered, "looks better this way," and patted him on the shoulder gently. It felt intimate in a way Pete didn't really know how to describe, Michael's features seemed focused but not as tense as they normally were. He seemed content. Or maybe Pete was reading too deep into it.

A loud creak alerted them of Henrietta Biggle's arrival, a messenger bag slung across her torso and two bottles in her right hand, she kicked the gate shut and paced to them. The bottom of her dress was wet from the snow.

"Sorry I'm late," she lifted up the bottles as evidence, "had to go out and buy these since my dad drank like _all_ the booze in the house," she dug through her bag for a blanket and shoved the bottles in Firkle's arms, who responded with a grimace.

Michael helped her set the blanket and they all knelt down on it, making the snow crunch under them as they compressed it with their body weight, and Firkle and Pete set the bottles down. It mimicked their regular meet-ups in Henrietta's room. The girl pulled about half a dozen red candles from her bag and motioned towards Pete who held his friend's lighter in his left hand. He ceremonially lit the candles they had arranged in a pseudo-circular formation before tossing the grey lighter back to Firkle, who clumsily let it drop to the ground.

The conversation steered towards the social burden that is gossip when Firkle commented on the rumor spreading that Craig Tucker was a homosexual and secretly swapping spit with an unnamed classmate.

"Why do we suddenly care about who's gay and who isn't?" Michael droned, "I mean he's a hipster douche bag anyway, so it doesn't matter."

"You guys," Henrietta Biggle interrupted the dispute, scanning the screen of her iPhone, "there's a gig in that club by the bowling alley tomorrow night. It's some, like, Pink Floyd inspired band," she set her phone down before looking up at them, "wanna go?"

"Shit, man," the youngest boy began, "we haven't been there in ages, I thought that place was closed."

"Yeah, it was up for demolition last year or something, what happened?"

The entire conversation became a dull string of chatter in Pete's mind as he focused on the way Michael's eyes fluttered shut when he took a deep drag from his cigarette. He desperately tried to remember the feeling of his hands on his face when he fixed his makeup, how cold his fingers felt. Their eyes met and Peter Grey quickly shifted his gaze to stare at the blanket they were sitting on.

His shoes dug into the wool and he picked at his nail polish absentmindedly, trying to conceal the fact he was staring at Michael like a giant creep. Playing it cool was not his forte, especially when he could feel his ears getting hot at the mere thought of the way Michael's face looked obscured by smoke. He coughed.

Henrietta was first to open a bottle, it was the vodka Pete brought and the cap clicked off and rolled onto the snow, only to be dug up by chubby fingers which proceeded to wipe it on the fabric of Henrietta's dress. She took a swig and passed it to Firkle, hissing lightly at the aftertaste.

When it got to Pete, he was about ready to throw himself off a bridge and he eagerly tipped the bottle back against his mouth, his Adam's apple bobbing with each gulp before pulling it away and wiping his mouth, accentuating it with a, "_goddamn_."

Michael's eyes were on him and half of him felt self conscious, berating himself for the pathetic way he clung to the feeling, whilst the other half sought after it further, reveling in the attention. It was like he was splitting at the seams between rational thought and the intense desire to just stop giving a fuck.

A sharp breeze rolled, it hit their skin like pinpricks and Henrietta visibly shivered, reaching over for the bottle again. The heat of the alcohol quelled her goose bumps.

As the night went on, Pete felt himself losing track of the conversation, focused on getting drunk enough to talk to Michael Lynch without his heart beating at 500 bps. The texture of the blanket they sat on felt rough and scratchy, and he gently picked at the fiber. Firkle's voice crescendo-ed and Henrietta erupted with airy giggles, clutching her chest with one hand. Peter watched the scene through a translucent film, and laughed along.


	3. Chapter 3

_And you were so young, baby._  
><em>You were so young.<em>  
><em>Dragging your feet in the face of creation.<em>  
><em>I was so young,<em>  
><em>Yeah, we were so young.<em>  
><em>And still there was you, the center of me.<em>  
><em>Oh, and still there was you, the center of me.<em>

_"Berlin, Without Return" - Voxtrot_

* * *

><p>Even against the cold wind, heat pooled inside of him and he unbuttoned his coat, fanning himself with his other hand. Firkle shifted into a cross-legged position and opened another bottle. The conversation deteriorated to breathy laughter and Peter found himself inexplicably closer to Michael than he had been ten minutes ago. He took relish in the fact he wasn't being pushed away.<p>

The dark circles around Michael's eyes proved to further perpetuate his initial hypothesis than Michael Lynch was, in fact, an intimidating motherfucker.

"You guys look like you're having a great time," Henrietta half-slurred, leaned against one hand with her cigarette holder in the other and Pete realized just how close they were before scrambling away and scoffing.

"Whatever. Pass me that Vermouth, will you?"

"How the fuck can you drink that garbage?" the tallest of the four commented. Pete would have to remember to stop liking white wine.

The next recollection any of them could vouch for was stumbling into Michael's car who, being the only one not completely hammered, drove them back home. The snow at the bottom of their blanket soaked through Henrietta's dress as she carried it to the vehicle, insisting on holding it in her arms instead of just putting it in the trunk like a normal person. The candles and bottles were long since forgotten.

Bauhaus blared all too loudly for Pete's buzzed state, who sat in the passenger's seat while they drove around the town, stopping at Firkle's house and then Henrietta's on the outskirts of town. Peter Murphy comforted their struggles.

Pete hoped there would be some climactic moment of romantic buildup resulting in Michael asking for his hand in marriage or something, but soon enough the car pulled over at his house and he counted the seconds it took him to get out. One.

Michael turned to look at him, and he squinted to get a better look at his eyes, trying to analyze the look he was giving him. This lead to him leaning across the gear shift which awkwardly jabbed into his arm. Two, three, four, five, six. Michael extended his arm and reached to grab his hand.

In his inebriated state, upon seeing Michael's hand travel towards his, the words that came out of his mouth were, "dude, that's _your_ hand," Michael offered him an offended glance before he burst out into airy chuckles and Peter sank into a casket of embarrassment. He put his thumb and index finger to the bridge of his nose and mumbled, "oh my god," in a way that read shame and astonishment at how much of a the-worst-possible-thing that entire interaction was. Seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. He gave up counting.

He could sort of appreciate the way Michael Lynch's face contorted with laughter, even if it was sort of at his expense. When he calmed down, Michael looked at his friend who had sunk into his seat, a look of pure dread across his face, and turned the music down a bit before saying, "it's okay. I mean, y'know. I've said worse shit. We can still," he trailed off and it was him who leaned across the uncomfortable gear shift this time and rested his hand on Peter's shoulder in an awkward gesture of comfort. Closeness was never his strong side. Pete's stomach flipped upside down at the contact anyway.

Their communication methods had built their own language of either run-on sentences that could go on for as long as 15 minutes, or unfinished tidbits of what one could only assume was the English language. The shorter boy felt a warmth in his chest at the thought of the fact that they still understood each other even when one of them was plastered. It kinda felt like not being alone for once. Or maybe he was just reading too deep into the fact that Michael couldn't be assed to finish his sentence.

"Yeah," was the only reply he gave, and leaned into the touch almost instinctively. The motor was still running and he figured Michael should have kicked him out of the car ages ago... Or maybe he needed this as much as Pete.

There was a moment he considered leaving all sensible thought behind and smashing their lips together, but he decided against it in favor of putting his hand over Michael's and realizing how cold it was. He rubbed circles with his thumb into the top of his hand, memorizing every contour. Bauhaus played quietly in the background.

_All we ever wanted was everything  
>All we ever got was cold<em>

"This is my favorite song," Pete heard him say fondly, so quiet, as if he didn't want him to hear. Or maybe he did. It felt like he had learned some great secret.

_Get up, eat jelly  
>Sandwich bars, and barbed wire<br>Squash every week into a day_

Pete shut his eyes and listened as carefully as he could, trying to absorb every strum, note and lyric. Before thinking, he answered, "it suits you," before he felt his face heat up with embarrassment. He really needed to start thinking before speaking. Michael didn't seem to mind. Maybe he hadn't heard him.

_The sound of drums is calling  
>The sound of the drum has called<br>Flash of youth shoot out of darkness  
>Factorytown<em>

Pete shook conformist thoughts of imposing affection onto his taller friend away and opened his eyes before going, "I should get going. I'll see you tomorrow?" the question hung in the air.

Michael seemed deep in thought, it was beautiful in a way an ancient piece of parchment was beautiful. Like it would break if you touched it, "yeah," he finally said and half-smiled, "see you tomorrow."

Pete crawled into his house with sickness pooling in the pit of his stomach, he felt pathetic in his persuasions. His body lay face down on his bed and he sighed as deeply as he could muster. His entire being felt wrong and the room was spinning as he attempted to fall asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

_So I try to laugh about it_  
><em>Cover it all up with lies<em>  
><em>I try to<em>  
><em>laugh about it<em>  
><em>Hiding the tears in my eyes<em>  
><em>'cause boys don't cry<em>

_"Boys Don't Cry" - The Cure_

* * *

><p>Peter Grey awoke to the sound of his alarm clock blaring, and he slammed his hand across it repeatedly until the ungodly noise stopped, before mumbling profanities and turning over. The sun was all too bright as it penetrated his room and he groaned at the sound of his phone ringing shortly after.<p>

The familiar drone of 'Dirty conformists' made it clear the call was from Henrietta, and he answered it, trying his best to not sound hungover and romantically frustrated.

"Hello," his voice was hoarse and foreign in his ears.

"Pete," she answered without missing a beat, "what the fuck was that with Michael at the graveyard last night? If you guys are a thing, you can tell me," Peter had trouble interpreting her tone, either accusatory or assuring.

"We're not a," he paused, "_thing_, or whatever," he grimaced.

"Pete, you couldn't take your eyes off of him last night," his heart sank into his stomach at the realization of how obvious he must have been, "I'm not an idiot," she added.

"I'm not implying you are. Whatever, I've gotta go."

"Whatever you say, loverboy, see you at the 'Viage N'," Peter could practically see her air-quotes, "tonight at 7PM," with that, she hung up. Henrietta Biggle was an enigma.

The boy sat up in his bed and groggily ran his hand through his hair. He felt gross, the kind you feel after spending the night drunk in a cemetery pining after a guy. The air seemed stuffy, uncomfortable and he got up and stumbled into the bathroom.

He had no concept of time whatsoever, and it seemed sort of comforting to know that in that moment, sweet ignorant bliss would cradle him in its arms and reassure him he had nothing to worry about. It could have been anywhere between 6AM and 5PM. He took a hasty, hot shower, during which he did his best not to burn his skin off.

A knock on the door of the bathroom awoke him from doing a naked cover of Boys Don't Cry, and he yelled out a, "I'm in the shower!", prompting the perpetrator to leave. It was probably his mother. He couldn't be assed to care.

Steam rose from the hot water and he slowly got out, wrapping a towel around his waist and one around his hair. He wiped the foggy mirror with his hand, first in the formation of a frowny face and then its entirety, appreciating his towel turban before washing his face and brushing his teeth. Hating to look at himself in the mirror for too long, he walked back out into the hallway, shivering at the cold air before entering his room.

He touched a hand to his shoulder, remembering the way Michael's spindly, cold fingers felt, the way his touch was always attentive, intentional. At that moment he almost felt content. But the phone rang again, the tune of 'Death and despair' awaking him from his thoughts, his breath caught in his throat at the caller ID as he answered.

"Pete, dude," Michael said immediately, "how are you feeling?"

_Miserable_, he tested the word on his tongue, _pathetically infatuated_. He shook his head, "I'm good," he immediately berated himself for his choice of words before adding, "why?"

"I don't know, you seemed pretty out of it last night. If you feel sick, I can come over," Peter felt like he was misinterpreting every one of their interactions. They hadn't hung out together in a while, just the two of them. His heart skipped a beat at the mere thought.

"Uh, sure," goddamn, he was not eloquent, "right now, or...?"

"I don't know. When would you have me?" _All the time_, he thought.

"Just, uh," Pete's voice was so quiet he could barely hear it resonate in his bones, he spoke softly, "come over at like 2PM."

"Okay. See you then."

"Yeah," and he hung up.

Droplets of water fell from his body onto the floor and he shuffled over to his dresser and waded through clothing. Getting dressed was never his strong point, he reached for a black button up shirt and struggled with the golden, pearl shaped buttons. They slid between his fingers as he clumsily did the garment up, the bishop sleeves hung loosely on his arms and he slid into a pair of black jeans, feeling self conscious about the way he had to wiggle to get into them.

Reoccurring thoughts of Henrietta encompassed his mind, considering what she had said earlier. He couldn't have been that transparent with his endeavors. Shame pooled in the pit of his stomach at the thought. His nails clicked against one of the buttons as he adjusted the fabric of his shirt before looking himself over in the mirror.

He engaged in artistic persuasions to get his mind off of his throbbing headache, drawing shapes of dead trees and phantoms. His stomach growled, although food seemed like a horrible idea, the familiar urge to throw up hit the back of his throat. Instead, he continued drawing.

Michael staggered over to Peter Grey's humble home a couple of hours later, slamming his cane to the doorbell before walking up to the door and waiting. Snow fell steadily onto his shoulders and hair, dusting it in white. The entire situation made him feel quite Byron-esque. The younger boy opened the door, shivering at the cold, his wet hair swaying in the breeze as he quickly lead Michael inside and upstairs into his room.

Idle chitchat commenced and the reoccurring pangs of Pete's headache slowly faded into a comfortable, dull ache, he named constellations made of Michael's freckles after the way he felt when he discovered each one.

_Temptation_, the group scattered across his nose was called, _Worry_ were the ones on his left cheek, and on his right, _Curiosity_.

"Dude," Michael exclaimed, reaching across the bed and grabbing his friend's poetry book, "have you been writing?"

The boy could only nod as insecurity pooled in his belly, he felt self-conscious about his verbal expression and elocution. Michael flipped through the pages, stopping when he reached the last one entered. He scanned over the letters while trailing his fingers across them gently.

_Water is a life source and a murder weapon_

_And sometimes it's a Wednesday night and_

_It's snowing like never before and goddamn_

_You are an ocean._

Sunlight hit the paper, specks of dust visible in the air and Peter shifted impatiently in his seat, attempting to adopt a composed posture but not really succeeding. He was sure he looked awkward.

Michael sighed across from him and his stomach turned inside out at the sound, not knowing what to expect. He chewed his lip nervously. Anxiety was evident in his facial expression and he scanned the room as to occupy himself as his friend gathered his thoughts.

"You should write a book," he began, and Pete perked up at the sound of his voice, immediately shifting his gaze to the way Michael held the notebook, "I'd be a hypocrite if I bought it but I would illegally download it," he offered an amused smile, it had become a more common exchange between the two of them, and one exclusive to their circle.

Feeling on the spot, however, Pete changed the subject quickly after mumbling out a 'thank you': "Do you want some coffee?" it was such a stock question, it barely even needed to be asked, of course the answer was an affirmation. He shifted his gaze to the window, the sky was obscured by snow, a blizzard seemed to be forming. Perhaps they would be snowed in, Pete thought, and he berated himself over how appealing the idea sounded. Glorifying the idea of the two of them starving to death together, he went back to looking at Michael, waiting for an answer.

"Sure," was all he said, "you know how I take mine, right?" of course he did, he knew the caffeine-related habits of all his friends by heart and he scrambled up onto his feet and made his way out of the room. The rest of the house was much colder than his bedroom and he shivered, his drying hair exposed to the cold and giving him goose bumps, he trudged down the stairs.

Gingerly, he filled the coffee pot with water and put it on the stove before shuffling around the kitchen, searching for the coffee. Michael never took his black, he preferred it with milk, saying it made him feel sick otherwise. Peter never really cared, being lactose intolerant, he didn't get the appeal of dairy.

The water began to boil and the boy added three spoonfuls of coffee, stirring generously before waiting a bit, and stirring again. He turned the stove off. Sighing at the realization that most of his coffee mugs were in the dishwasher, Peter stood on the tips of his toes, reaching up onto the top shelf of the cupboard and grabbing two stray cups.

One was grey with three blue cats on it, the other had green ones. They were from a set his mother got from a coworker for her birthday that March. Tentatively, he poured the coffee into the two all-too bright cups, adding a splash of milk to Michael's, he decided his would be the one with blue felines. Stacking them onto a tray, Peter cringed at the hot porcelain against his hands.


	5. Chapter 5

_I came upon your room it stuck into my head _  
><em>We leapt into the bed degrading even lice <em>  
><em>You took delight in taking down <em>  
><em>All my shielded pride <em>  
><em>Until exposed became my darker side<em>

_"Dark Entries" - Bauhaus_

* * *

><p>Pete carefully carried the tray up the staircase, the wood creaked beneath his feet at the pressure, and he opened the door with his elbow before walking in and kicking it closed. Michael instantly stood up and took the metal tray, setting it on the floor as he sat down next to it. The blizzard seemed to be gaining in intensity.<p>

"So," Michael Lynch began, "my prom's in two days," and the familiar feeling of anxiety made itself evident in the pit of Peter's stomach again, "you coming with?" and Pete hummed and nodded against the rim of the cup pressed to his mouth as he took a careful sip, grimacing at the heat and bitterness before swallowing. It burned in the back of his throat with words he didn't have the guts to say, like swallowing a grenade.

He coughed deeply, cringing at the fluid in the back of his throat as he wheezed for air. Nothing uncommon. Michael still offered him a sympathetic glance before tapping at a square bulge in his front pocket, their need for nicotine seemed to have been simultaneous, just the action alone brought cravings to Peter's mind.

Composing himself, he alluded to his friend's pocket, motioning his eyes towards the pack of cigarettes. Michael could only comply, digging the box out and tapping the back of it before pulling two out and counting the rest. He tossed one to Pete.

"I never count mine," he said absentmindedly, more to himself than to anyone as he plucked a lighter from his bedside table and ignited the object, inhaling deeply, it felt like a comforting embrace, "never cared enough, I guess," the smoke obscured his face and Michael squinted his eyes. At least, Pete was sure he did.

"You're the main reason I do it," Michael retaliated, "considering you never bring your own," his tone wasn't accusatory but the other boy couldn't help but curl into himself slightly, it was subconscious, "not that I mind," out the corner of his eye Pete swore he could see the tall boy's expression change into a smile, or something akin to it before changing the subject, "do you still have your records?"

Flipping his hair from his eyes, the boy nodded while he inhaled shallowly around his cigarette and tried to blow smoke rings. It never worked and he grimaced to himself in exasperation, and then tapped his cigarette gently with his index finger, knocking about half an inch of ash off the tip before replying: "I keep them under my bed," he left the coffin nail in the ashtray that always sat on his bedside table, "it's easier I guess."

Michael extended his hand and pulled out a shallow, cardboard box filled to the brim with gramophone records, he waded through them before carefully slipping out the _In the Flat Field_ album sat between Joy Division and The Smiths (he berated Peter for listening to hipster music).

"Play this," his voice was hoarse, "we haven't listened to this one in a while," he stopped to ponder before taking a drag from his cigarette and adding, "I haven't, anyway. Whatever," he leaned back and exhaled smoke, Peter's inner capnolagniac shivered as he placed the B side face-down.

_Small talk stinks,_

_Small talk stinks_

Michael mouthed the lyrics with his eyes shut and time seemed like it was slowing to a halt, like they could sit there forever.

_You whisper sweet nothings chit-chat-back-chat_

_There's no idle gossip in braille_

Suddenly a chill ran down Peter's spine as his best friend shifted closer to him, their feet were touching. That was probably a vaguely strange thing to notice, but it felt intimate in a way that sleeping with someone feels intimate, like coexisting in each other's near vicinities. Religion never really mattered to him, most people called him an atheist but the way Michael's presence felt made him see god. If god was 6'1" with curly hair and a beak-like nose. It made his chest tighten in a way that made him feel homesick for a place he hadn't even seen.

"Pete," and he wanted him to never stop talking, but his hand waved in front of his face, snapping him back to present tense, "what's the matter?"

"It's nothing," he curled into himself, feeling insecure in the way he sat, spoke, everything, "it's stupid."

"No it's not," the tone was gentle, comforting, "_godiche_, you know you can tell me anything."

"_Ce n'est rien_."

Michael wanted to comment, but he left it at that, finding it better to keep his mouth shut. He would tell him when he was comfortable. Still, he tentatively slung an arm across Peter's shoulder, pulling him closer. The smaller of the two swore he could hear their hearts beat at the same time, the sound was torturous in his ears.

The familiar smell of nicotine made itself evident when Michael blew smoke out into the already dense air in perfect ring configurations. They probably weren't perfect, but it didn't matter. Neither said anything out of fear of spoiling the moment of awkward mutual affection.

"What time is it?" and truth be told, Peter didn't know, they'd been like this for what felt like decades, psychological atrophy in a stuffy room. Still, he pressed the side of his phone, the screen lit up, making him squint his eyes, still slightly photophobic.

6PM.

_Holy shit_, he thought.

Michael resonated his inner monologue aloud, "holy shit, is it really?" nod, "you wanna go to that gig tonight?" another nod. Michael rubbed the boy's arm gently in response. Pete shut his eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

_I don't know you, baby._  
><em>You don't know me.<em>  
><em>We are just victims of the same situation.<em>  
><em>Baby's big war,<em>  
><em>Tell what you die for.<em>  
><em>We were just born to lose this life.<em>

_"Berlin, Without Return" - Voxtrot_

* * *

><p>By 7PM, the record had long since finished and Pete was too lazy to turn it or change it, the sun had set behind the horizon and they both got up to make themselves look presentable, Michael raided his friend's bathroom for a spare toothbrush and hairspray while Pete changed into a thinner button-up, also featuring bishop sleeves and a Peter Pan collar.<p>

As if on cue, the familiar monotone drone of _'Dirty Conformists'_ filled the room and the boy stumbled over to his phone and answered.

"Peter Grey, I beg of you to let me have this, I need to see this Pink Floyd ripoff," a lot of the conversations he had with Henrietta Biggle began with her acting as if they'd already been talking for a long time. She had the ability to always sound like she was in the middle of debate, "right now," she finished and went dead silent.

"Yeah, sure," was all Pete could think to say, playing with the buttons of his shirt, he knew how passionate Henrietta felt about alternative clubs. She fell in love with any place that reeked of hairspray as much as her room, "I'll be there in like half an hour, okay?"

"It doesn't start til 9PM, asshole," she spat jokingly. Pete shook his head, "be at the Village Inn in half an hour, we'll go to the club after," and she hung up.

"Getting hung up on by Henrietta Biggle is a reward in and of itself," Michael commented, "can we walk there? I miss getting shitfaced," his friend nodded before digging through his drawers for his own cigarettes, he didn't wanna have to mooch off of Michael forever, it felt pathetic. They participated in the manual labor of putting their shoes on. Peter was sure there was a _'Goth Problems'_ blog with that being at least #5 on the list.

Accentuated by the cold wind blowing in their faces as their skin stung against the contact, they treaded through the snow. Pete never really cared for the cold, he supposed it was because he grew up around it. Still, he couldn't help but squint his eyes against the strong wind. He felt kind of like a hero from a novel. Though most stories regarding blizzards ended with the main character dying of hypothermia. He tightened the scarf around his neck.

The neon sign of the Village Inn made itself evident in the distance and they both quickened their pace. There was something familiar and cozy about the café, like a sanctuary featuring black coffee and love songs from the 1980s playing in the background. The place smelled fucking horrible though, like a mix of stale coffee and pastries someone had left out for too long. The glass door squeaked open and the brunette waitress' eyes darted up to see the two boys walk in.

Henrietta and Firkle were sitting at their usual booth, Peter grimaced, there was no chance the fact that Michael and himself arrived together would remain inconspicuous. The chubby girl shot them a knowing look as they walked over to their booth and sat down across from each other.

"Hey," Firkle began, his voice was scratchy, like you were trying to listen to him speak on a broken gramophone, "my parents are away on some shitty vacation so," he tapped his black nails against the table, "my curfew's been rendered irrelevant."

Firkle Cambert was due home by midnight on school nights and 1AM on weekends as his parents were convinced that he would get kidnapped or murdered otherwise, "if someone wants to kill me, they have to do it before midnight," he would say, "I'm like the goddamn murder victim equivalent of Cinderella, except the glass slipper is a bullet."

"Another young soul corrupted," Henrietta joked, "he was such a good kid," she added as she fixed her fringe, chubby fingers moving in front of her face.

The waitress shuffled over, taking their orders and walking back behind the counter, Pete spared her a single glance before averting his eyes to some ketchup smudges on the table. _Minimum wage_, he thought to himself, scrubbing them with a napkin absentmindedly. Michael stared out the window in a way that looked like he was pretending they didn't just totally spend like an hour hugging. Maybe he was trying to forget it. Shame pooled in the pit of his stomach.

"Pete," Henrietta Biggle began, "have you been eating?" he glanced down at his legs, it looked like someone had punched a hole between his thighs.

He shrugged in response. Truth be told, he'd forgotten the last few meals, his mind was occupied with other things. She seemed to understand, though, and dropped the topic. Pete pulled a pack of cigarettes out from his pocket and tapped on the back.

Just then, the underpaid woman assigned to serve them cheap coffee walked up, grimacing at the young boy: "You know you can't smoke in here, right?" Peter shooed her away with his hand in a way that made even Firkle break out in a grin.

The most-likely-carcinogenic lights above them flickered suspiciously, the Village Inn wasn't what it used to be. It had been shut down a few times due to health violations, though that didn't stop its usual customers from returning soon after it had reopened: people who lived in obscure parts of the town, or those as poor as the people that worked there. It wasn't exactly a versatile crowd.

"That bitch is gonna drop dead one of these days, I swear to god," Michael commented after the waitress had made her leave, "she's older than the Constitution."

From where he was sitting, Pete Grey could see her grumble something along the lines of: "These fucking kids," and he scoffed before taking a sip of his coffee.

"Ow! Motherfucker," he hissed, coughing at the bitter taste of the all too hot beverage, "that's fucking hot," he inhaled deeply through his mouth as if that would help, his throat felt like it was on fire. Michael offered him a sympathetic look and their female friend smacked him in the back a few times, mumbling a 'there, there'.

Once in a while, they'd suspiciously glance at the huge clock that hung on the wall, the hands lit up in a gaudy, bright blue. When it hit 8.30PM, Henrietta was the first to stand up in a statement, dusting her dress off and making her way towards the door. Pete and Michael followed, leaving Firkle with the bill. He rolled his eyes and slapped a sparing amount of money on the table before walking out as well. The door closed as they heard the loud groan of the waitress.

"No car?" the chubby girl asked, gesturing to the empty parking lot, "I forgot what walking feels like."

They walked along the snow-covered streets, specks of black against the white of the winter, the snow crunched beneath their feet. The fog set around them, making it hard to see and Henrietta Biggle lifted the bottom of her dress up above the snow, sighing in contempt: "This material is fucked up, it's not really supposed to be wet."

Firkle spared her a glance: "Well, shit," his hoarse voice was barely heard against the hum of the wind. He mumbled something about snow getting in his eye as he rubbed at his face, smudging his dark makeup.

In the distance, a row of buildings made itself evident and Pete shivered with enthusiasm. He'd never actually been to a proper alternative club, come to think of it. He silently hoped the people were civil. The Biggle girl clasped her hands together in excitement and broadened her steps, letting the bottom of her dress fall from her hands and pool at the top of the snow.

By the time they'd gotten to the door, Henrietta was practically bouncing and she gleefully opened it. Peter Grey slowly slid inside, however, trying to savor the experience- be it good or bad. The room was stuffy and reeked of smoke and perfume, the lights illuminating the gangly figures inside. Not wanting to seem out of place, the boy pulled his own pack of cigarettes out, lighting one and inhaling shallowly.

He squinted his eyes against the strobe lights as he chain smoked his respiratory system into oblivion, staying close to his friends lest he get squished between sweaty bodies. Henrietta had already run off somewhere, leaving him and Michael to look after the 15 year old. Shrugging, he took a drag from his cigarette and flicked the ash onto the floor.

"Isn't that littering?" Michael droned behind him.

"De minimis non curat praetor," the boy retaliated, turning around and exhaling smoke into the other's face in an act of defiance. Michael gave out a breathy laugh in response. He felt the taller boy's breath against his ear and he bit his lip nervously. _Fuck_.

"I need a drink," the oldest of the three commented, "you guys want anything?"

"Please," was all Peter said. The tall boy slithered away into the crowd with an obscure hand gesture his friend could only assume meant _'I'll be back soon'._

Blinking against the strobe lights and smoke irritating his eyes, the boy looked around in an attempt to locate his vertically challenged friend, only to find he had vanished as well.

Well, _shit_.


	7. Chapter 7

_I would go out tonight_  
><em>But I haven't got a stitch to wear<em>  
><em>This man said<em>  
><em>"It's gruesome that someone so handsome should care"<em>

_"This Charming Man" - The Smiths_

* * *

><p>In the midst of the crowd and noise, Pete had slowly lost orientation and he tried his best to slowly find his way to any visible doorway so he could get some fresh air, the pungent smell of cigarettes was slowly overpowering the amount of oxygen in the room. Movies, he concluded, had a very skewed view of how clubs actually worked.<p>

He felt like he was suffocating and hearing everything through a filter, the voices around him merged into one screaming _'find the bathroom, find Michael, find someone'_ and god, Michael, he didn't want to think about him. Someone painfully jabbed their elbow into his rib and he inhaled sharply, wading through bodies and looking for the exit. His phone vibrated in his pocket but he didn't dare dig it out and read the text message.

Not even Interpol could find his friends at this point. The large entrance door slowly came into view between two impractically dressed adolescents and Peter Grey slid between them and pushed the door open, his legs shook as he scrambled to get onto the street and just _breathe_.

Rain steadily fell onto the wet concrete of the horribly-lit street and the boy felt dizzy as soon as he exited the building, a headache forming in the back of his head while he leaned against the wall and tried to gather his thoughts. Once again, the phone in his front pocket vibrated and he slid a shaky hand down to grab it and pull it out.

_2 new messages_, the screen glared bright. Both were from Michael.

_Peter I am genuinely concerned, where are you?_

_Firkle is intoxicated and I have a cocktail with your name on it, now if only you'd tell me where you were._

"Goddamn," the boy whispered, quickly texting a response.

_I'm outside. Hurry._

It probably sounded more urgent than he intended, but he didn't have the strength to elaborate further. His index finger and thumb rubbed the bridge of his nose. Tightly, he shut his eyes at the realization that his makeup had probably gone to shit.

The door slid open to reveal a disheveled Michael Lynch. Behind him, cheering was evident as well as a lack of music, Pete figured the band must have finally gotten set up. In his hands, the tall boy held two large glasses with some liquid mixture of god knows what. He just hoped it would get him hammered.

"There you are," he droned, kicking the door closed and handing one of the glasses to his companion before bending the straw towards him, "mix it."

Peter Grey moved the straw in a pentacle formation before plucking it out and tossing it onto the pavement. Next to him, the other boy smiled as he did the same before adding, "this has literally every alcoholic beverage I could name."

Suspiciously, Pete brought the glass to his lips and took a cautious sip.

"They should name it _suicide note_," he coughed at the potent smell and burn in the back of his throat, "or _throat cancer_."

"_Suicide cancer_."

"That sounds like a band," willing all rational thought away, he took another sip and grimaced. To his right, Michael let out what resembled a laugh, though it was moreso him exhaling sharply in amusement. He downed the rest of his drink and knelt down, placing the glass on the wet concrete. Water drops clinked against it softly and he looked up. _Fuck_.

Skinny legs stood like pillars, Michael's body contoured sharply, coat hanging off of his bony frame. Their eyes met and Pete quickly shuffled onto his feet. Eye-contact was not his strong side. Rain had begun falling with more vigor, a white noise against the uncomfortable, tense silence between the two boys.

_Fucking say something_, Pete thought, _don't make me do it._

"You look deep in thought," Michael began, "I'm almost jealous," he swore the boy had somehow gotten closer and stood merely inches away from him, "_Vas-y_, Peter, talk to me, what's wrong?"

The boy shut his eyes tightly, trying to think of a way to avoid this confrontation: "It's nothing, I'm just," he said, not quite sure how to finish that sentence, "I don't know," he felt jagged and nervous, like everyone could read his inner monologue. He bit his nails nervously and fidgeted in his place.

A warmth covered his hand and pulled it away from his mouth. _Oh_. It was Michael. And their hands were touching. He savored the feeling, remembering the moment in the car and in his room, tiny tidbits of intimacy he was growing addicted to. The older boy rubbed circles into his palm and took another sip of the drink in his other hand, hissing at the aftertaste.

Pete squeezed his hand gently and inhaled. The skies ripped open and thunder rolled in the horizon, tearing him away from his thoughts. He slowly loosened the grip on Michael's hand, but the other didn't seem to be letting go, instead whispering: "Don't."

He cursed how cryptic Michael could be, resting his head on the tall boy's shoulder.

"Ok," he replied, sighing, "I like the rain."

"Me too."

_'Dirty conformists,' _Peter's phone sounded from his pocket, _'dirty conformists, dirty con-'_ he pressed it to his ear with his free hand, mouthing apologies to Michael.

"Yes?"

"Pete I swear to god," she began, "this band is underwhelming and everyone smells like cloves, where are you?"

"I'm just outside."

"Is Michael there?"

Pete turned his attention to his friend who arched a brow.

"Yeah, he's here," he said.

"I'm coming out with Firkle, okay?" and she hung up. Pete scanned the time quickly.

_00:36AM_

It felt like less time had passed and the looming fear that he would have to return home soon pooled in his stomach, he sighed and stuffed his phone back into his pocket and once again tried to let go of Michael's hand. This time, he released it, letting his arm fall limp beside his body.

Soon enough, Henrietta and Firkle slid out as well, the girl huffing and dusting her dress off. She eyed them suspiciously.

"What are you doing?" she asked, completely monotone. Not waiting for an answer, however, she continued, "whatever. Firkle has a migraine and I'm still sober. You guys wanna split?"

Peter shrugged in response while Michael nodded in agreement. The rain poured down generously and they parted ways for the night. On his way back home, Peter was plagued by thoughts of his friend's hand on his, how cold his spindly fingers felt. He clung to these small displays of affection like a vice. Scrambling with his keys, he opened the door and called out to his parents.

"I'm home," the wood of the stairs creaked and the door of his room closed shut. He was sure he wasn't going to get any sleep that night. His suspicions were confirmed by the sound of his phone vibrating.

_'I can't sleep.'_


	8. Chapter 8

_Could it be this stagnancy was laced in all the lies they fed me_  
><em>Drown them out with song and friend and drink, ingest this cider, I<em>  
><em>Spit it from your mouth like a foreign object<em>  
><em>Sing it to the world like a drunken prophet<em>  
><em>Spit it from your mouth like a foreign object<em>  
><em>Why do you ingest this?<em>

_"We Will Erase All Life on Earth but Us" - Say Anything_

* * *

><p>He threw his head back onto his pillow and sighed deeply, staring at the ceiling. The lights felt too bright and the sound of the house settling resonated in his ears with such intensity he swore he would go deaf.<p>

Rain tapped against the glass of his window, consistent and steady, and his record player crackled lightly, spinning _The Cure_.

_And suddenly a movement in the corner of the room  
>And there is nothing I can do when I realize with fright<br>That the Spiderman is having me for dinner tonight._

Hastily, he wrote a response to Michael, not reading over it and instead shifting onto his side.

_'Me neither_.'

Then he reached over for his lighter, engraved with the words _'Telegram Sam'_. The boy flicked it on and off before pulling out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lighting one. After inhaling, he coughed out puffs of smoke. His eyes burned and he shut them tightly, letting his other arm hang off the side of the bed.

Soon the phone next to him vibrated again, he groaned and pulled it closer to him. The pounding in his head intensified at how bright the screen was. Fuck.

_'Stay up with me; however strongly you may disagree, rewatching The Breakfast Club does not compare to your company.'_

Pete let out a shaky breath and nervously jabbed at the keys on the screen of his phone, his mind was brimming with self-doubt and fear. Any trace of confidence he may have had faltered.

_'Watch your movie, I'm nowhere as witty.'_

_'I disagree.'_

With an annoyed huff, the boy shifted his position and mindlessly tapped the screen, trying to think of what to say. When it came to texting, he couldn't rely on the tone of his voice carrying him, which did little to help his elocution but it still made him feel more comfortable. The texts he sent always sounded monotone, he thought.

Frustrated, he covered his eyes with his hands and took another drag. Robert Smith understood his pain. Robert Smith understood everything.

_'I'm listening to Just Like Heaven and chain smoking my life away, I doubt I'm very enthralling.'_

Hesitantly, the boy pressed send and placed the phone next to him on the bed. Damn Michael and his quick typing. But also damn the way it made his heartbeat accelerate. He felt pathetic.

_'You're just like a dream.'_

_Fuck you, Robert Smith_, he thought, _for_ _taking part in my downfall._

_'Was this an elaborate scheme to win my affections?'_

_'Did it work?'_

_'Goodnight, Michael.'_

Slamming a pillow over his head, Peter suppressed any outbursts of emotion as the record kept playing softly in the background. The lightning from outside made him shut his eyes tightly and clutch at the pillowcase desperately. The boy shifted around impatiently before settling down in a comfortable position, the thread of sleep tugging softly at his conscious, he let his eyes close.

He awoke to the sound of rain still steadily falling outside, the sky was grey and cloudy, his sorrows took on a metaphysical undertone. There was no motivation to drag his limp body out of the sweet cocoon he comfortably wrapped himself in, the fog of a dreamless sleep slowly cleared from his mind as he sat up. One of his hands rubbed the sleepy daze from his eyes, though it chose to manifest itself as the remains of last night's makeup.

"Fuck," the boy mumbled, standing up and shutting his eyes tightly at the dizziness, "fuck," he repeated.

Stumbling to the bathroom, Peter Grey stared himself down in the mirror, trying to somehow convince himself he looked slightly presentable as he washed his face and brushed his teeth thoroughly, he felt disgusting. Eying the old clock on the wall of his room, he changed and shuffled outside, indulging Henrietta Biggle in her request to meet up at her house.

The sound of her doorbell resembled the ringing in his ears and she opened the door, holding a sandwich in her left hand, and she scoped the boy up and down: "You look like shit. Here, I'll make myself another one," she handed him the food.

Pete eyed it suspiciously but shrugged.

"Firkle's upstairs and," averting her attention to her cell-phone, the girl huffed, "I have no freaking idea where Michael is."

"Give me some Xanax," Pete replied, taking a bite of the sandwich and cringing at the taste and resisting the urge to grimace as he placed it down on the table.

"I'm not your mother, Peter," she retaliated, but complied, digging through the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and handing him a small, round pill, "take it with water," she said and watched the boy place it in his mouth and swallow, "or don't."

They made their way up the stairs, the wood creaked at the pressure, past the guest bedroom and into Henrietta's room, dark and stuffy, Pete coughed as soon as he walked in. The smoke from the incense on the floor as well as that from Firkle's cloves was making his eyes water and he sat down, running his hands through his dyed hair and sighing.

Firkle eyed him cautiously and tossed his lighter at him, gesturing at the pack of clove cigarettes sitting beside him. He rolled his eyes and pulled one out, groaning at the lighter's refusal to cooperate before putting it back down and sighing. Instead, Pete shut his eyes and tried to calm the dizziness, leaning back and tipping his head up, he breathed deeply through his nose.

"You need to get your roots done," the girl commented, still fiddling with her phone and hoping Michael would answer her.

Within 15 minutes, the world slowed down into a hazy blur and the younger boy slowly slid his eyes open, feeling calm at best, exhausted at worst. He was engulfed with a fuzzy daze and the sounds around him merged to white noise, he shut his eyes.

When they opened, Peter found a hand in front of him, waving up and down, skinny and bruised and a familiar monotone drone to his right: "Wake up, asshole, it's noon," he clicked his fingers before averting his attention to the girl sitting on the floor, "the fuck did you give him?"

"It's just Xanax."

Peter Grey mumbled obscenities under his breath and rubbed his eyes, trying to focus them on the people surrounding him. Firkle was stuffing his face with popcorn while Michael and Henrietta's attention was directed towards him.

"What?" was all he said, his voice felt foreign in his own ears, rough and weak.

Michael pressed a hand to his forehead and his eyes widened at the sudden contact, though he pulled away just as quickly. It seemed they were fated for tidbits of contact with little context. The boy sighed deeply.

"My prom's tomorrow," the oldest of the four mentioned, throwing a glance at Pete, before averting his gaze elsewhere.

_Oh yeah_, Peter thought, _prom_. The previous looming sickness returned, though this time with more intensity, at the realization- he swallowed and bit the skin around his fingers nervously. The room felt suffocating and uncomfortable and Michael exhaled rings of smoke into the already stuffy air while Henrietta Biggle assaulted her hair with hairspray.

The bass of _Hollow Hills_ droned in the background and Firkle waded through a large box of fiction novels to find some he could borrow. Finally settling for one, he slid the box back next to the bedside table.

"Didn't Bebe ask you to take her?" Henrietta enquired, roughly teasing her hair with a small comb. Pangs of jealousy arose in Peter Grey's chest, suppressed only by what little common sense he had not to blurt out the fact that Bebe Stevens was undeserving of Michael's attention. She wasn't even a senior.

"That's a laugh," Michael answered, "it was probably for some dumb prank between her and all her other jock friends. I turned her down, though," he finished, looking up before pulling his phone out and absentmindedly tapping the keys, seemingly fixated on a particularly round water stain in the corner of Henrietta's ceiling.

Their daily banter took place as Firkle tried his best to concentrate on the book he was reading whilst keeping up with the conversation, leading him to refer to Michael as Holden several times. Pete thought the fact that the small spark of jealousy still burned somewhere inside him was childish, if not petty. It probably was.


	9. Chapter 9

_So take me where they cannot see us _  
><em> and lay me down on coffin rich dirt.<em>  
><em> Tonight, I am a Transylvanian.<em>  
><em> A taste of you won't hurt.<em>

_"I am a Transylvanian" - Say Anything_

* * *

><p>The next day, Peter Grey tried his best not to think of the implications of his friend's prom night, the fact that the following few months would be their last of going to school together, that he would have to spend the next year walking and that his avoidance of physical education would only be shared with Henrietta- the thought made his bones ache.<p>

He tried to keep himself occupied as he impatiently waited for the sun to fall, indulging in artistic persuasions as it slowly got dark outside, his sunken eyes staring down at ink-stained paper as he tapped his fingers against the surface slowly. The clock on his wall ticked consistently and he threw a glance at it, a chill running down his spine at the time.

9:36PM

The boy huffed as his message tone went off, he tried to conceal the eagerness with which he reached for it, opening the text message. It felt like waiting for an execution as it loaded, nanoseconds felt like decades, he inhaled sharply.

_'I'll pick you up in half an hour.'_

_Fuck_, he thought, _fuck, fuck, fuck_, as he shuffled around his room, looking for clean clothes and his hair straightener, muttering obscenities under his breath. The moment he couldn't spend another agonizing minute waiting for suddenly became the one he wanted to stall for as long as possible.

Two bobby pins between his teeth and a burn on the back of his neck, the boy suddenly stopped at the familiar yet frightening sound of the doorbell ringing. He called out an: "I'm coming!" though he quickly realized it was meaningless as Michael surely couldn't hear him, considering he was one story below him and _outside_.

After almost falling down the stairs and quickly slipping his winklepickers on, Pete barreled through the front door, almost knocking Michael back a few steps.

"Whoa," the older boy exclaimed, stumbling back before regaining balance.

"Sorry."

"It's okay," the front lights of his car illuminated the street and Pete slid into the passenger's seat, fiddling with the radio as Michael walked around the car and into the front seat. He settled for something moderately doom-and-gloomy.

The ride was short and quiet besides the music that was playing and the streets were mostly empty, they stopped at the car park closest to their school, watching hundreds of kids pour into the building as they exited the vehicle, Michael scoffed.

"Fuck these stupid consumerist celebrations," he said to himself more than to Peter, who nodded in response, as he pulled out his pack of cigarettes and tapped on the back before pulling one out and counting the rest, he lit the one in his hand and took a deep drag, "fuck, I needed that."

"I forgot mine again..." the other boy whispered, "I'm cold," it felt pathetic.

"Come here," he extended an arm and Pete slowly huddled closer to him, they leaned against the car and Michael wrapped his arm around the other boy, "better?"

"Yeah," the shorter boy replied, trying to conceal his joy and pressing closer against him, "_c'est bien_."

Against the pale moonlight, Michael Lynch exhaled rings of smoke into the air and ran his hands through Peter's hair absentmindedly. He wished he had spent more time trying to make it look decent as he looked on, the urge for nicotine slowly arising, he tapped his foot on the ground impatiently.

Noticing his anxiety, Michael held his cigarette out, offering it to the short boy, who plucked it from his hands and put it to his mouth, inhaling sharply and breathing out, sighing in content and whispering his thanks.

Swiftly, Michael leaned down and pressed a kiss to Peter's cheek, the action was so soft and quick that, from a few feet away, one wouldn't even realize it happened. Neither did Pete, for the first few seconds, he blinked and narrowed his eyes.

"Did you...?" the question hung in the cold air, he saw the tall boy fidget in place before realizing he might have sounded too brash, "I mean," he hastily clarified, "I liked it, but," words didn't seem to work properly for him, anything he said felt forced.

Noticing the taller boy's evident insecurity, he stood on the tips of his toes and returned the gesture, more direct this time, still fueled by pure adrenalin and fear before he put the other boy's cigarette up to his mouth. Michael rolled his eyes and accepted it, taking a shallow drag and coughing.

He edged closer, testing the boundaries until he could feel the taller boy's breath ghost over his lips before whispering: "Can we...?"

"If you want," Pete closed the distance between them, kissing him properly, the way he wanted to, smoke obscuring where their bodies merged, their shadows became one, he slowly moved his mouth, the feeling wasn't anything like the movies made it out to be.

Michael tasted like skin, it felt almost unusual to feel it against his lips and he moved cautiously against him, sticky and soft. He could feel the older boy exhale against him as one of his hands grabbed his arm, holding him in place. Every moment leading up to that point, every stray touch that ended too quick and every night he'd spent trying to get drunk enough to call him connected into one fathomable concept. Like finally catching up to the fleeting sensation he'd been chasing for years, it was anticlimactic. But not bad, never bad.

It wasn't disappointing in the slightest, he cursed himself for expecting fireworks and background music. But Michael's teeth prodded at his bottom lip and the world could swallow him whole and he wouldn't care.

Michael slowly pulled away, breathing softly and dragging a hand up to wipe his mouth. The other boy would be offended had he not done the same moments later with his sleeve before sliding his hands down and grabbing his friend's, intertwining their fingers as he coughed gently.

"_Fuck_," Michael whispered, "you'll get sick, fuck, I'm sorry," hastily, he broke the contact and opened the door of his car, allowing Peter inside as he elaborated, "we'll go to my house, okay?" though he didn't wait for a reply before slamming the door shut and shuffling around to the other side.

Anxiety shot through Pete's chest at the thought of being in Michael's house, he'd only been there once or twice and never like this. It felt like he was breaking rules he'd set for himself, though the sound of the motor awoke him from his thoughts and the car park seemed like it was miles away.


	10. Chapter 10

_You, soft and only _  
><em> You, lost and lonely <em>  
><em> You, strange as angels <em>  
><em> Dancing in the deepest oceans <em>  
><em> Twisting in the water <em>  
><em> You're just like a dream<em>

_"Just Like Heaven" - The Cure_

* * *

><p>Michael Lynch's home was as unintentionally intimidating as he was, Pete concluded, as they made their way out of the car and towards the front door, his tall friend cursing under his breath as he waded through a mess of keys trying to find the right one before finally succeeding. The door creaked open and they walked inside.<p>

He felt like he was defacing sacred property with wet winklepicker shoes as he stood on the grey carpet and took off his pea coat and slipped his shoes off. His feet were cold, though he didn't dare bring it up lest he cause Michael any trouble.

"My room's just down the hall, I'll be right in," and he walked off in some unknown direction that Peter would probably be able to navigate had he been there previously. But no, it was an unknown field, he was out of his element there.

Walking slowly and cautiously down the hall he realized there was more than one door present and decided to go with his gut feeling and burst through the one that looks the most like it contains brooding and misery from a tortured soul. Or the one with Peter Murphy's face on it.

The metal door handle felt cold against his fingers and he slowly slid the door open, praying to whatever deity he rejected at 13 for it not to creak. It didn't.

As he walked inside, he noticed Michael's room was 70% bed. The large mattress encompassed a large portion of the floor. Next to it stood a writing desk with one of the drawers missing from the side and some of the wood chipped at the corners slightly. It looked old.

Gingerly, he sat on the bed and twiddled his thumbs until Michael walked in, holding two cups of coffee and a lighter. He handed one of the mugs to Pete, the boy used it to warm his hands before taking a slow sip, ignoring the steam rising from it. It stung in the back of his throat like a cancer and he watched as the other boy took a seat next to him and placed his own cup on the bedside table before reaching out and grabbing some incense and lighting it. He placed it in a stray glass and inhaled deeply.

The smell of menthol encompassed the room, the smoke obscured Pete's view of his friend and he narrowed his eyes against it, leaning closer, but Michael moved away just as quickly, grabbing his laptop and placing it on the bed next to him.

"What do you wanna listen to?" he asked, cautious and insecure.

"Uh," Pete didn't feel very eloquent, he had forgotten how to emote, "anything is fine..."

"The Cure it is, then."

_Remembering_  
><em> You standing quiet in the rain<em>  
><em> As I ran to your heart to be near<em>  
><em> And we kissed as the sky fell in<em>  
><em> Holding you close<em>

Their knees were touching, it was such a subtle form of contact but Peter yearned for it, clinging to the gentle heat radiating from Michael and the way his bony knee dug into his own slightly, he shifted closer, touching his arm.

_Breathe_, he thought, attempting to regain rational thought, though all he could think of was Michael's lips on his, the way they molded together, he cursed himself internally for being so pathetically infatuated. He slowly rested his head on Michael's shoulder and sighed. His curls tickled his cheek in a way that made him homesick.

Though god knows he'd felt more at home in that room than he ever did in his little trailer. The incense was making his eyes water and he wiped them with his hand, though he didn't mind very much. Still, the tall boy moved it away from them before running a hand through Pete's hair.

"This is weird," Pete confessed, the sentence hung in the room, "not necessarily bad. Just," he mumbled, "weird."

"We're pretty weird, though," the other boy retaliated, "I don't particularly mind."

"Me neither."

The room was quiet beyond the occasional sound of the house settling and Pete moved onto his knees and leaned closer to the taller boy. Their noses brushed against each other and he whispered, "is this okay?" though he didn't wait for a response.

The thought of getting used to doing that was beckoning, his hands found Michael's cheeks and held him in place, sliding his tongue along his lower lip and moving slowly, trying to get as close as possible, silently wrapped around him. Michael released a soft sound against him, leaning back slightly and digging his fingers into the sheets under them.

When they broke apart, the smell of incense was heavy and suffocating, though Pete figured it must have just been him. He sighed deeply and pressed a kiss to Michael's cheek who, in response, placed his hand on the boy's side, the contact made Pete shiver.

The worries of everyday life seemed so far away he couldn't fathom their existence, that he was still a high school student with grades and parents and a part-time job. No, none of that was relevant when Michael's bony hands found his, it felt comforting that this was okay. Michael's cold skin reminded him of who he was.

"What about when you graduate?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what happens then? To us or whatever," he elaborated.

"Whatever's supposed to happen, I guess," Michael droned, "I could just wait for you to graduate so we can go to college together," the thought made him smile.

"I'd like that."

He leaned his head against Michael's shoulder again, sighing as he shut his eyes slowly. It felt like he uncovered some sacred truth in the way he felt at home in that room, the smell of menthol burning his eyes just enough to keep him from closing them, he clung to the warmth radiating from their bodies, the place on the wall where their shadows merged into a single silhouette. He found comfort in light touches and stray looks, the way Michael could make everything feel alright, like a constant reminder that the world was alive, that he was alive.


End file.
